


Colours of Grey

by Ivorysilk



Category: White Collar
Genre: Not-fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 06:23:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivorysilk/pseuds/Ivorysilk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal dreams in colour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colours of Grey

**Author's Note:**

> In 2012, I went to a White Collar meetup on a bit of hope and a whim. I came back with some great friends, fantastic memories--and a little fic. One night we played that writing game where everyone puts words into a hat, and you pull out three, and write a fic from that before the timer goes off. I got: broken, nostalgia, pj’s., with the added stipulation that the genre was food, or possibly food kink (I can’t quite remember; I messed that part up, although there’s food in here too--I seem to write a lot of fic featuring breakfast food, which I clearly have some kind of obsession with). 
> 
> Anyway, here’s the fic that came up as a result. It’s not quite what I expected. Aside from some profanity, I will warn only that this one isn't warm and fluffy, and is perhaps not what you might expect, either.

************************

Neal woke to the warm and comforting smells of coffee and bacon and eggs, thinking back to a time long ago. When he’d been young, and his mother happy; when he’d been hopeful and innocent and believed in truth and justice and the American way.

When he’d believed his father had been Superman, the law correct, and criminals deserved to go to jail.

Peter poked his head into the room, his voice a soft rumble. “Neal, are you awake?”

Neal struggled to a half-sitting position, letting the nostalgic memory fade away in favour of reality. The Burke’s guest room was bright and cheerful, decorated tastefully in shades of blue and gold. “Sure,” he smiled sleepily. “Good morning, Peter.”

“Don’t you good morning me,” said Peter sternly, even if the glint in his eyes was fond. “I’m still mad at you.”

“Awww, you love me anyway,” grinned Neal, basking in the unmasked affection in Peter’s gaze.

“Don’t give me that look, either,” growled Peter, his words at odds with the look on his face. “You are an idiot.”

“You got Escovar, didn’t you?” asked Neal. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“You have three broken ribs and a concussion. And you made El cry. Don’t even try that, Neal. When I saw you lying there--” Peter’s expression was an echo of the worry of the previous night.

“Peter,” said Neal mock-chidingly, hoping to distract Peter from his ire--and the stress of the last couple of days. “You know me better than that. My head’s as hard as a rock.”

“Oh, I agree you’re bone-headed, don’t you worry. And now I have a lot of paperwork that you’ve caused, so don’t get any ideas. You are going to be good for the rest of the day. You’re going to eat your breakfast, and take your medication, and rest quietly. If I so much as get a daydream that you’re going to step out of line, I’m going to handcuff you to this bed. Got it?” Peter was pointing at him, shaking a finger at him as if Neal took him seriously anymore.

“Kinky,” murmured Neal in response. “Peter, you know that--”

Peter raised a hand. “Stop it. El’s coming. Be good.”

Neal smiled. “El’s kinkier than I am. And you know I always try.” His smile broadened when he saw Elizabeth, carrying a laden tray.

“Wow,” said Neal, looking up at Elizabeth. “You’re spoiling me.” The enormous tray was covered in temptingly arranged dishes--bacon and eggs and potatoes, tiny breakfast pastries, three crystal flutes filled with orange juice, and a spray of deep red lillies. Inviting scents wafted up from the steaming plates and Neal secretly wanted to cry--if he hadn’t been feeling so tired, if he hadn’t been wearing Peter’s frankly hideously bright pyjamas--

“I see that look in your eyes. I’m going to watch you eat that, Neal. And you’re going to finish it.” Peter’s voice was hard, but the look on his face compassionate.

“How are you feeling, sweetie?” asked Elizabeth, setting the tray down on the bedside table, and cupping a hand against Neal’s cheek, sitting on the side of the bed and leaning over to kiss him.

“Underdressed,” grinned Neal, picking at the pyjama top. “Where on earth did Peter get these?”

“His mother gave them to him. When he was in college.” Elizabeth smile was wry.

“Ah,” said Neal, wisely saying nothing more. Maternal gifts were sacrosanct. Still, bright yellow? With red piping? Really? Peter’s fashion sense was clearly genetic.

“Can you manage, Neal? I don’t want you moving your hand more than you need.” Peter’s voice was filled with concern. Neal’s fingers and wrist had also been broken--Escovar’s guys were thorough.

“I’m ambidextrous, Peter. I’ll be fine. Go to work.” Neal smiled up reassuringly.

“Not a chance. You’ll eat, and take your meds, and go to sleep. And then I’ll leave.”

“Peter,” said Neal, assuming a hurt look. “It’s like you don’t trust me.”

“I don’t,” was the blunt response. “Shove over.” The smell of the food was making Neal faintly nauseous, a holdover reaction to the combination of concussion and antibiotic.

“We’ll go slow,” Elizabeth reassured. “And pay no attention to Peter. This is for all of us. We thought you’d like some company.”

“Always,” smiled Neal, leaning somewhat surreptitiously against Peter beside him. He hadn’t been awake for long, but he was starting to fade. Peter wrapped one strong arm around him, holding him securely, and Neal was grateful.

“Try the toast, Neal, and maybe a little juice. And there’s tea. Peter will help you,” said Elizabeth. “My event’s not far, and I’ll come home at lunch, and work from home for the rest of the afternoon. Peter’s going to be home by 6, and then we’ll trade off, because I’ve got a gala this evening.”

“You don’t have to--” began Neal.

“Quiet, Caffrey,” interrupted Peter, although his tone was mild. “Chew and swallow.” He pressed a piece of toast against Neal’s lips, and Neal opened obediently. He really wanted to sleep.

The next few minutes passed quietly. Peter fed him, and Neal closed his eyes, leaning more and more into Peter, letting Peter dictate his actions. Eventually, he turned his head, refusing any more, and felt Peter’s lips graze against his temple before Peter eased him back against the pillows. He lay there, drifting, feeling safe and warm and comforted, until Peter stroked a gentle thumb against his cheek.

Neal opened his eyes slowly. The room was in shadow, the curtains drawn. “Neal?” asked Peter softly. “El’s left, and I have to leave too. Sit up a little, and take your meds, and drink this, and then you can sleep, all right?”

Neal tried to summon up a smile, but he was so tired. He blamed the concussion. “Sure, Peter.” He let Peter prop him up slightly, and swallowed when prompted, waiting for the pain to fade.

It didn’t.

“Wake up, Caffrey,” he heard a loud voice say harshly. “Wake the fuck up.”

It wasn’t Peter’s voice. Something hard struck his cheek, and he blinked abruptly awake. “It’s breakfast time. Eat up.” And his eyes blearily focussed on the shadowed grey cell around him, the black booted foot in front of his face, the steel tray on the floor. His nausea rose as he pulled himself into a sitting position against the wall.

The guard sneered. “Ya got oatmeal today. Ya better finish it all. Warden’s takin' notes.”

Neal swallowed, his throat dry. “What--what day is it?”

The guard looked at him, and his expression twisted into something that might, in another place, in another time, have been compassion. “Ya ask me that every day, Caffrey, and I’ve been wonderin'. Ya get no visitors, and yer in here fer life. But ya keep track o' the days, and I gotta ask ya--why does it matter?”

In the beginning, Neal used to keep track himself. In the beginning, he’d never had to ask. But then he began losing time and track, and so he’d begun asking. He’d been asking for so long, now, he couldn’t remember why.

The oatmeal in front of him was grey and mushy; he knew it was as tasteless as it was lacking in colour.

In his dreams, Peter held him and fed him and there was sweetness and warmth and golden, brilliant light. In his dreams, there was sharp contrast and soft angles and bright, vivid colour: enough to inspire a painter, enough to incite a sculptor, enough to feed the vision of any artist.

In his dreams, he was loved.

The guard’s expression was bored and dispassionate as he waited for the prisoner’s answer--only mild curiosity in his gaze, but no real interest. Neal shivered in the gloomy chill of the cell, bruised ribs from yesterday’s general pop time protesting, gathering the thin cotton-blend of the prison-issued blanket around him. It was the colour of dust; the material scratched his skin.

Neal narrowed his eyes, no longer fighting the gathering shades as they rose to mute his eyesight. He’d given up trying to see clearly a long, long time ago.

“I guess,” he answered, not bothering to look up, “I guess it really doesn’t anymore.”

**Author's Note:**

> All comments are treasured; thanks for reading.


End file.
